


Goldsinger

by wolfern



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alex's other talents, Bad Puns, Comedy, F/M, Fic Exchange, Guilty Pleasures, James Bond References, Old person love, Spyfest, get your mind out of the gutter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 17:04:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19855846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfern/pseuds/wolfern
Summary: Goldsinger... He's the man, the man with the golden voice... There are many things people know about Alex. But not this. Alex swears he hates singing, but even the best spy can't hide his guilty pleasure forever. For dalekchung, for the 2015 SpyFest fic exchange.





	Goldsinger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dalekchung](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dalekchung).



> Written for dalekchung (ffnet) as part of the 2015 SpyFest fi exchange. I hope you enjoy :)

Alex was a spy. To some, that meant martinis and explosions and a dozen cool gadgets for every day of the week. It wasn't like that. Well, maybe a little bit, but not always. To Alex, it meant forgetting his own name a lot. And when he was off-duty, he had to forget his job. For a life based on noticing and remembering details, convenient memory issues were surprisingly important. Of course, Jack and Tom knew a lot more about him than anyone else. But they didn’t know everything. They didn't know he liked to sing.

It all started when Tom (of course it was Tom; it was always Tom) pointed out that, like Daniel Craig, Alex had blond hair and was fairly muscular. Plus, Alex’s soon-to-be ex-friend continued, Alex knew lots of martial arts and could bring a sense of legitimacy to their school’s rendition of James Bond.

One wondered if legitimacy was even possible in a _pantomime_ about spies. “Besides,” Alex said, “Isn’t James Bond meant to be dark-haired? _You_ could play him.”

“I’m not the spy, here,” Tom scoffed. “Anyway, you know I can’t; I’m on props and scenery. It’s too important for anyone else but me to do.”

And once the other students learnt of Alex’s martial arts skills, James Bond’s lines were for his eyes only.

A few days later, and Alex discovered the _real_ reason Tom wanted Alex to play James.

“I have to _sing_? I hate singing!”

Tom nodded his head vigorously. “Why do just a pantomime, when you can have a _musical pantomime?_ ”

“But–”

“You’ll have the entire school orchestra accompanying you!” Tom was nothing if not efficient when embarking on personal projects.

Alex sighed. “What song?”

The smile Tom gave was not pretty. “Rise Like a Phoenix, Conchita Wurst.”

“Eurovision?”

“Eurovision.”

“But I hate singing,” Alex repeated his lie emphatically.

The thing was, Alex honestly didn’t mind singing. Sometimes, when Jack was out, and Alex had drawn the curtains and closed all the windows, he went to the bathroom for a good round of listening to his voice echo dramatically off the tiles. But in public? Never.

It wasn’t just the fear of mass humiliation – it was also one of his only secrets from Tom, and more importantly MI6. Even if they knew everything about him, at least they didn’t know _this._ It afforded him some sense of freedom and independence that the rest of his life lacked. “Remind me why I’m doing this, again?”

“You don’t want to let down the good name of Bond, do you?”

Alex wasn’t sure if he wasn’t doing that anyway, by being in a _panto_ about spies. But Tom had organised it all already, so it wasn’t like he could back out. Mind, this would only be a once-off thing. The only time anyone would ever hear him sing would be the night of the pantomime. Never again. In the meantime, he’d practise in the privacy of his house. When Jack was out.

"I won't enjoy it. Not one bit."

" _Please_? You don't want someone else ruining the role, do you?"

“Alright,” Alex said, “I’ll do it."

* * *

Alex spent the afternoon trying to work up the courage to record himself so he could ask Jack what she thought. So far, all attempts to sing with his phone recording had resulted in him croaking silently. He could snowboard down mountains on an ironing board, ride over a waterfall in a plane sleeper, but any hint of embarrassment and he was defeated. Maybe that’s what his opponents should have used; tar and feathers, a silly costume, and a judgemental audience. He hoped the adrenaline on the night of the performance would prompt his voice so he wouldn’t stand there, the spotlight on him, opening and closing his mouth like a tuna in the air.

Jack had left a glass of milk and a plate with jammie dodgers in the fridge. After a few hours of hopeless croaking, Alex decided to take a break.

But as he opened his mouth to take a bite of a biscuit, the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mr Rider.”

“Yes?”

“Your presence is requested at the Bank, immediately. Bring your school bag.”

_Click._

Alex sighed. He scribbled a quick note to Jack on his way out. In a fit of pique and, quite possibly, adolescent impunity, he took the plate of jammie dodgers with him.

Outside, a car awaited.

“Why couldn’t you just go up to the door and knock, like a normal person,” Alex muttered, “instead of enigmatically calling me?”

Nevertheless, he got in.

“Sorry if I get crumbs on the upholstery.” Sarcasm – though he doubted the driver noticed or cared.

While they drove, Alex found himself humming _._ And then he stopped, because he realised he was falling into Tom’s trap. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be singing like a kid from _Fame_ in the school hallways, and then where would his intimidating druggie reputation be?

The driver looked over as Alex shuddered violently.

“I just want to be normal,” Alex whispered to him, and the man’s face softened.

“You give ‘em hell, kid.”

Alex smiled wanly. “Jammie dodger?”

Inside, the secretary was not so friendly. “I can’t let you in with _that_ ,” she told him, nose wrinkled like a used silk handkerchief. “School bag, only.”

“Why?” He wasn’t about to put the biscuits in his bag. They’d get it all sticky.

“I was told school bag only, sir.”

“I assure you; these jammie dodgers are perfectly harmless. No hidden weapons, no self-destruct buttons for the building–”

At that, the heads of everyone in the foyer turned. While Alex smiled politely at them, the blasted woman snatched his plate.

“Hey–”

She gave him a firm look and waggled her varnished fingers at him in a shooing motion.

“I– Oh, never mind. Just don’t eat them.”

Alex didn’t really feel much like eating when he entered Blunt’s office, anyway. The age-sagged face of MI6’s Head, and Mrs Jones’ pervasive warm peppermint scent, were enough to turn his stomach.

“Well, howdy, folks. Tell me, is this new mission special?” he asked, dropping into the seat.

Blunt steepled his fingers. “What makes you say that?”

With one hand, Alex indicated his school bag.

The director of MI6 didn’t even have the decency of nodding, launching straight into the details of the mission. “You are to join… a choir.”

Alex blinked. First Tom, and now... He threw his hands up. “Is the world conspiring against me? Mrs Jones, you know how much I hate singing–”

She looked at him blankly.

“Right,” Alex grumbled, giving them a view to kill.

“You needn’t sing in the choir,” Mrs Jones offered.

“Sure,” Alex growled. “But if it turns out I do have to sing, I’m going to hate it.”

“It is suspected that some unknown members of a local choir are involved in weapons trading,” Blunt said, ignoring the digression.

“Isn’t home security MI5?”

Blunt inclined his head. “Generally, domestic security is the purview of MI5. However, due to… recent budget cuts, MI5 has had to prioritise staffing; they have asked us for assistance–”

“And since I’m not doing anything ‘important’ at the moment, you thought I’d be just the thing.”

Blunt’s mouth flattened – a clear sign of his good humour. “There is a rehearsal tonight. As Mrs Jones said, you needn’t sing; they advertised for technical support with microphones and, I understand, a PowerPoint presentation. As a _teenager_ studying _IT_ , you will be under less suspicion than if we had had another agent join the choir.”

"Anyway, all our agents claim to be incapable of singing," said Mrs Jones. "I haven't the faintest idea why."

Leaning back slightly, Blunt continued. "You are will not confront or otherwise put pressure on the suspects. You will _build rapport_ and _observe_ , nothing else. Do not in any way attempt to hint of any knowledge of any weapons dealing. Understood?"

“Alright,” he said, giving a mock bow as he stood, “I’ll do it.”

Mrs Jones also rose to hand Alex a brochure with a photo of the choir on the front, which looked like it had been made in Microsoft Publisher about a decade ago. The WordArt was… eye-catching. She cleared her throat. “They’re much better at singing than they are with technology.”

Small consolation.

* * *

The rehearsal was in the parlour of an old house in Belgravia. Most of the singers were old enough to have children whose own children had left school. Alex was greeted with a cup of tea and directed towards a coffee table adorned with biscuits and chocolates. The flowery wallpaper and musty perfume made him feel as though he was intruding on a Neighbourhood Watch meeting, rather than a haven for illegal activities. This impression was not aided by a woman (“Call me Elaine”) who, unbidden, burbled a stream of gossip at him, pausing only long enough for him to exclaim, ‘Oh,’ and ‘My!’

It took several minutes for Alex to finally understand that the choir was singing James Bond songs in a festival sometime later that week. Good thing he’d be out of there before then. It wouldn’t do to have any observing spooks reporting back to Blunt that he’d looked criminally happy singing in the choir. And he had a sneaking suspicion that Tom, with his preternatural sense for Alex’s embarrassment, would somehow discover the event and show up.

For a few minutes, there was general chatting and mingling with Alex having retreated to a shadowy area of the room to observe the group dynamics, but when the clock struck the hour, all food and drink was cleared, and the crowd ambled around as if playing musical chairs in slow motion. He found a seat on an armchair that huffed a small dust cloud with each movement he made, beside an old man with a moustache that appeared to have migrated from his eyebrows. Earlier this man had been animated, but now he settled into a solemn mood, along with everyone else.

Thankfully, all they wanted from Alex was a PowerPoint presentation, as Blunt had said. They didn’t even need him to work with microphones, because it would all be set up by the festival organisers. The choristers were eager to have him sync the presentation to their songs, however, so he sat and watched them launch into an impressive rendition of _Goldfinger_ and hoped he’d get a chance to chat some more.

After _Goldfinger_ , the soloist excused herself to get a glass of water, and while she was gone, the rest of the choir continued straight into an _a cappella_ version of the James Bond theme song. The man beside Alex surprised him by launching into a surprisingly sprightly mimicry of the bass guitar, moustache twitching madly.

Finally, they finished, and halted for a breather.

Alex’s seat-partner turned to him. “Enjoy the performance, laddie?” He had the type of voice that belied his friendly words with the booming delivery of a drill sergeant, and the type of stare to match.

Alex opened his mouth, but the man steamrolled him before he could answer.

“If I may ask, have you yourself any experience with the more melodic arts? Voice of an angel, if you know what I mean…” He winked outrageously and nudged the bemused Alex, almost sending him off the chair.

Alex clutched at the chair and wafted the dust clouds away before he dared to speak. “I – uhm, I used to be in a choir.”

“Much more impressive than our small ensemble, I’ll wager! But no longer?” The stare intensified.

“No,” he said, but the man had already become distracted in the way that old people were oft wont to do. To Alex’s supreme embarrassment, the man was now telling everyone who would listen to him that Alex was a singer.

And so before he could even start sounding out who sounded like a weapons dealer he was the centre of attention.

“We’ve been trying ever so hard for someone to add _pizzazz_ to the final song,” exclaimed Helen.

“Oh? How lovely.” He tried to sound as politely disinterested as he could.

“Rise Like a Phoenix,” ejaculated Gregory.

Oh. “I thought you were doing a James Bond showcase.”

They all smiled so artlessly, like even ice-cream wouldn’t melt in their mouths. “We are, dear, but we wanted to show solidarity–”

_“Solidarity!”_ came the obligatory chorus.

“And modernity–”

_“Modernity!”_

“And it was _such_ a Bond song…”

_“Perfect,”_ they sighed.

“Oh, _please_ do it for us, won’t you, darling?”

“ _Alright_ ,” Alex said, “I’ll do it.” Anyway, he’d be out of here before then.

* * *

The next day, Tom all but leapt on Alex at the gates.

“You’ve had a night to practise, now sing for me! Sing, O nightingale!”

Alex shook him off. “No. I hate singing. You’re not going to hear me until the show, and only then because you forced me into it,” he said stoutly.

Tom tried to wrap his arm around Alex’s shoulders to draw him in. “How am I going to know you’re not absolutely shit?”

“That’s my problem, not yours.”

“But I don’t want you messing up the pantomime.”

Now it was Alex’s turn to smile. “You shouldn’t have chosen me, then. If I’m to be your Bond, you have to deal with me and what _I_ want. And _I hate singing._ ”

His friend let out a sight of abject irritation. “ _Fine,”_ he groaned. “Have it your way.”

* * *

Due to the upcoming festival, the choir had decided to increase rehearsals to every day. This was actually rather good for Alex, because it gave him more chances to complete his mission _before_ the festival.

Having conducted preliminary exploration of the choir’s dynamics in the first rehearsal, Alex commenced his true investigation – to _build rapport_ and _observe_. This time, when he entered to a perceptibly-warmer welcome, Alex moved towards his first target: Morris, the man next to whom he had sat in the first rehearsal.

Morris grinned at Alex as he approached, and held his brick-like hand out to shake. “What ho! Spiffing to see you, I say.”

“What ho,” Alex said in reply, but was jostled by a woman – the soloist who'd taken a break for a drink last session – who walked between them, carrying a plate of ginger nuts. He turned back to Morris, but the man had wandered off to follow the food.

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

Alex jumped at the man who’d suddenly appeared at his shoulder. “Who?”

“Allison,” said the man. “She’s the best cook in the choir. Her pickles are to die for.”

“Are you..?”

“Oh, no. We’re not _together_. Not that I’d mind, of course. No, I wouldn’t mind.”

“I see.”

“I don’t know how to tell her, you see. I don’t suppose you’d–? No, I’m being silly. You wouldn’t, though, would you?”

Alex drank his tea to avoid answering. Imagine being asked for relationship advice, when he couldn’t even... Well, _Sabina_. There was a pause as they each accepted a biscuit from one of the plates being passed around.

“We’re both widows, you know,” the man continued. Alex wondered what his name was.

“Oh?” Alex tried not to sound as uncomfortable as he felt. He definitely hadn’t expected anything like _this_ when he’d agreed – well, when Blunt had told him about this mission.

“Yes, she’s a widow and I’m a widower. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, it’s rather depressing, really.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, boy. I’ve always...” The man gulped his tea. “I mean, if two people are solitary and they join up, their solitude adds together, you know, as if each person has a set bit of… A quantum of solitude. And if you have two quanta of solitude, it makes… Oh, I don’t know.”

“A quantum of solace?”

“Yes, quite.” The man smiled faintly and took a firm bite of his biscuit.

“You should tell her that,” said Alex.

“All of it?”

“Well, if it’s a _quantum_ of solace, you can’t do it by halves.”

“No,” said the man, finishing his biscuit. “You’re quite right. Thank you.”

Alex smiled politely.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” the man held out a crumby hand. “William Cuthbert, at your service. But you may call me Wiggy.”

“Nice to meet you, Wiggy.”

“So, you really think I should talk to her?”

“You haven’t even _talked_ to her?”

Wiggy wilted. “No… Well, I mean… We’ve both stood in the same conversation circle together…”

“You have to talk to her! Man up and offer her a flower or something. Show her you’re interested.” In the back of his mind, Alex couldn’t believe he was advising a quadragenarian in matters of love.

Bolstered by Alex’s words, Wiggy rejuvenated. “You know what, I think I will!” And he strode off abruptly. It seemed unlikely that someone so introverted and terrified of a woman would be a suspicious weapons dealer, but perhaps it was a front. As a widower, he’d probably be short on cash and selling weapons was a rather profitable – if dangerous – business.

Feeling quite confident himself, Alex continued on. There was a duo lingering near the curtains, speaking quietly together, so Alex approached with a plate of shortbread. He held the plate out like a shield. “Biscuit?”

The two men, having been engrossed in what seemed a simmering argument, stiffened and turned towards Alex. One of them, the shorter of the two, smiled disarmingly and took a proffered biscuit. “Ah, my apologies. We didn’t see you there.”

Alex smiled yet again. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m Alex.”

“John,” said the man, holding up the biscuit. “Thanks for the biscuits.”

The other man, tall with a long nose and dark eyes, stayed silent. He couldn’t get more suspicious if he tried, thought Alex.

John looked at the man, then back at Alex. “I think we’ll have to continue this conversation another time,” he said eventually, around a mouthful of crumbs.

“Oh!” Alex feigned embarrassment. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. Nothing too private, I hope?”

The tall man finally spoke. “You’re from a good family, but that family has recently died, leaving you an orphan. Bereft of good influences, you’ve joined a gang, but you’re still trying to hide that from the private school you go to.”

Alex frowned. “Is this a story, Mr..?”

John smiled stiffly and put a hand on the other man’s arm. “Please excuse my friend. He’s not very used to talking to people.”

“On the contrary, I talk to people quite often.”

John’s smile stiffened. “But not very well. Look, I’m sorry,” he said to Alex, “But we _are_ in the middle of a _private_ conversation. If you wouldn’t mind…” he gestured for Alex to leave.

In order to maintain his cover, Alex did so. It was only the second rehearsal, after all. He had plenty of time to investigate John and the other man, whose name they had both avoided giving out.

As he moved away, mind on the strange men, Alex bumped into a woman, who managed to hold her ground so that he rebounded, and not she. “My apologies, Ma’am,” he said.

“The fault is mine,” she said elegantly. “Owens. Snow Owens.” Her smile widened. “The weather…. It is lovely tonight, is it not?”

Alex opened his mouth and glanced at the windows. The curtains were drawn. “Er,” he said.

“Nevertheless, one must be careful which tree they stand under. Incorrect barking, and the like.”

Trying to understand this woman was like trying to push pebbles through agarose gels.

“I’m five, if you comprehend,” she said, suddenly very close and very quiet.

Did she mean five years old? Or was she from MI5? “Are you really?”

“I wouldn’t worry about the homosexuals, my dear.”

"Oh?" he said, trying not to sound too taken aback. This was interesting. Perhaps – if she wasn't completely crazy – she was referring to the two men he’d just spoken to.

She stood back. “Alas, I return to my dear Beddgelert tonight. Now, you must hold the reins.”

“Alright,” he said.

Right before his very eyes, Owens swept out, a trail of shadows, like Mister Mistoffelees, only much more feminine. And before he had the chance to investigate any more, the tables were cleared and the room rang once more with the sound of music.

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, least of all Tom, but Alex was beginning to enjoy himself, even during the solo they'd forced on him. Singing in front of people brought much more gratification than singing alone in a shower, he had to concede.

* * *

By the time the festival rolled around, Alex was almost sung out. He felt more like a charred chicken than a rising phoenix. All week he had been fending off surprise visits from Tom trying to hear him sing, clumsy attacks by his fellow cast members who were playing the villains, and hugs and biscuits from the choir.

And he still hadn’t figured out who was involved in the weapons training, despite keeping his eyes and ears as peeled as roasted capsicums.

However, he was looking forward to the performance despite himself, and, in accordance, the weather that day was like the weather in Postman Pat: clear and crisp, with a faint breeze to stir up excitement. Pastel bunting stretched from tree to tree, and not a single fly dared land on any exposed apple cake or pork pie. Best yet, Alex hadn’t spotted Tom or anyone from MI6, though he'd be hard pressed to spot the latter even if he was sure they were there to spot.

Women promenaded along the river in floral tea dresses, while men congregated to chat, and children chased white ducks in the farmyard animal pen.

Wiggy was sporting a purple pansy in the buttonhole of his jacket, in full wooing mode. Despite the pressure of the mission, Alex felt proud of his romance protégé. Morris had decided to wear his shiniest medals, and neither John and his friend, nor Snow, were in sight. He had arrived a bit early, he supposed.

After wandering around for a bit, Alex decided to rest under an alder tree where he could observe the crowd. Observation only, Blunt had told him. Too bad he hadn't mentioned how _boring_ it would be. A man with a low browline and grey beard joined him, sipping on cordial. “Nice day, isn’t it?” he said.

“Yes,” said Alex, taken slightly by surprise, “it’s, uh, warm.”

“What?” he said dismissively. “Oh, yes. I’m telling you, I’m rather excited for the choir at ten o’clock; I heard they were doing Bond songs.”

Alex struggled to contain his smile. “I heard that, too.” He set his bag down, and it toppled over on one side. That would have been well and good, but as the bag toppled, a book fell out. A book Alex hadn’t placed in the bag. He bent down to pick it up.

It couldn’t have been more blatant. In stark black letters set against a white background decorated with red hearts was the title: _Casino Royale._

“ _Tom,_ ” Alex growled under his breath.

The man beside Alex caught a glance of the book. “Oh, you’re a fan, too!”

Alex smiled politely. “Evidently.”

“How did you enjoy the recent – Oh, it appears that I’m required over there…” he stuck out his hand. “Sam. Nice to meet you.”

Alex shook the hand. “Alex; likewise.”

And then the man hurried off to the stage, where the choir had assembled. Surprised, Alex checked his watch: ten o’clock. Woops. He hurried to join them.

Sam, meanwhile had begun a speech on the wonders of the James Bond phenomenon. Alex puzzled over his significance for several moments, and then he realised.

It was Sam Mendes. The director of Skyfall and Spectre.

And Alex would be singing in front of him.

They started with _Goldfinger_. Allison was the soloist. Despite the petite figure that belied her culinary prowess, even at the loudest belting it always seemed like she had more volume tucked away – and when she sang in her quietest moments, she had the spectacular ability to choose between a controlled whisper, a sweet tinkle, or a warm murmur.

The crowd, earlier a susurration of cheerful hubbub _,_ hushed.

As they sang, Alex watched Wiggy watching Allison with the same rapturous expression reserved for Tom eating chocolate. Alex smiled. Ah, young – well, old love.

After her performance, Allison excused herself from the stage to get a drink, as she always did in rehearsal.

“I’ll go with you,” said Wiggy. Alex grinned. The man was really laying on the doting now.

Allison smiled. “No, thanks, I’m alright,” and she hurried off.

Her admirer turned to Alex beseechingly.

“Go,” the teen motioned.

Wiggy smiled gratefully and hastened after her.

In the middle of the James Bond theme, Alex became aware of a quiet argument behind the risers. Surreptitiously, he glanced backwards. Wiggy was trying to catch up to Allison, who was walking very briskly. She looked uncharacteristically angry, hoisting a rather large handbag, and there was no sign of a cup in her hand. Alex bit his lip. What had Wiggy said to her?

Eventually, the choir finished the song and Wiggy took the opportunity to return to the stage. Alex asked him what had happened.

“I don’t know,” the poor man said. “I found her going to another man, instead of at the drinks table, and when I asked what she was doing, she wouldn’t answer.”

Ah, romantic competition. Though it was strange that she hadn’t answered.

“There, that’s the man,” Wiggy muttered, nodding his head towards a man in the crowd, who wore a greatcoat despite the sun. About three metres away, Allison was closing in on him with her ridiculously oversized handbag. Alex watched her greet the man, and the man handed her a bunch of flowers. Poor Wiggy.

Meanwhile, Sam Mendes was introducing Alex for his solo. The teen went to the front of the stage, amid applause, and accepted the microphone from Sam Mendes, but his mind and eyes remained on Allison.

Allison had given the man her handbag, and the man was looking inside. Odd behaviour for a couple. And then – it was a strange turn of luck, but just as the man closed the bag, a particularly boisterous member of the crowd jostled the man, and amazingly, a dark shape fell out, thumping onto the grass.

It was their reactions that really kept Alex’s attention. They both flinched back then immediately flicked glances around at the surrounding people, the man’s gaze settling on the audience member who’d jostled him – the audience member who was now gaping, seemingly terrified, at the black shape on the ground, gleaming in the sun.

The pieces fell into place.

Alex, having just opened his mouth for the first notes of his solo, sprang off the stage and barged through the audience. The man was busy bending down to pick the black shape – the _pistol_ – off the ground and Allison was trapped by the dense crowd. Alex tackled the man, grabbed the gun, and clutched at Allison’s ankle. She aimed a kick at his face with his free foot, but he _yanked_ her leg, and she came crashing down. The man reached into the handbag but Alex pressed the pistol to his neck and clicked off the safety.

“Drop it,” he growled, and the man complied. Allison was staring at him with wide eyes. “Put up your hands, both of you.”

The audience member, now very un-boisterous, shook at his side. “Call the police!” he cried, waving a phone.

“Alright,” said Alex. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

Crawley came with the police. “Well done,” he said. "You’ve lived to die another day." And then he disappeared into the astounded crowd. Alex let himself feel the teensiest smidgeon of pride. Still a 100% success rate, and he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Sam Mendes was more enthused. “Well _done_!” He shook Alex’s hand passionately. “And you’re just a child! Would you – would you be interested, perhaps, in a role? A villain? The audience would–”

“Never suspect me,” Alex finished. He considered the idea briefly, before shaking my head. “I don’t think my guardian would approve. I– I do have a friend, though; her name is Sabina…”

* * *

Amazingly, Tom had been kept so busy by the pantomime props and scenery that he had somehow neglected to organise the orchestra, which also, apparently, came under his jurisdiction.

“How was I supposed to know they’d need _sheet music?_ ” he demanded.

Alex shrugged guilelessly. “Well, I can’t sing without accompaniment,” he said, letting relief colour his tone. He patted Tom on the back, and went to get fitted into his suit for the show.

Despite the fact that he normally embraced anonymity – especially in his line of work – Alex had to admit there was some joy in being the front of the show. He hadn’t been a complete introvert before Ian’s death; circumstances had buried him into quiescence.

And then they came to the finale, where he would have sung his solo.

He hadn’t had enough time to discuss with Tom what to do without the orchestra. As the stage went dark and the spotlight shone on him, Alex swallowed. _I hate singing,_ his own voice rang in his ears. _I won't enjoy it._

But he couldn’t just stand in front of the audience in silence for the two minutes and whatever seconds it was.

Alex clenched his hands, feeling his sweaty palms detachedly. There was nothing for it. It was finally time to bite the bullet, to live and let die, to face the spectre of this guilty pleasure. He had hidden for too long. He would be guilty no more. He would be the spy who loved music.

There was a sound behind him. He turned.

“We’re here to accompany you,” said Wiggy to Alex's wide eyes.

“Good show, old chap. I say, what a talented young lad you are, sah!” said Morris.

Snow, John and his friend, and all the others nodded encouragingly.

Movement led Alex’s eyes towards Tom, waving, standing in the wings, holding a book. A James Bond book. _Casino Royale_ , in stark black letters against a white background decorated with red hearts. His friend opened the book and… no… there was a voice recorder in it. Tom hadn’t had to be at the festival to hear Alex sing. He was nothing if not efficient when he had a goal in mind.

And as Alex at last let his voice pour forth with the choir in full force behind him, and the school’s two hundred and whatever eyes fixated on the stage, he both hated and loved his friend for forcing his guilty pleasure into the open.

Perhaps it was good Alex didn’t have a license to kill. Yet.


End file.
